The End Of War
by Raphiael
Summary: Only the dead have seen the end of war. Warning for gore.


**Note: **a fill for the FE anon meme. I'm not entirely happy with it for a lot of reasons, but it is what it is.

**The End of War**

"I thought you might like to know that your dear sister is approaching the castle."

Silence, punctuated by too-short breaths. The slightest of movements: a twitch of broken, bloodied lips, the tightening of slender fingers hanging off a shackle-bound arm twisted beyond repair.

"Not a word from you, _my prince?_ I would think you'd be more concerned for her, fragile flower that she is."

A shadowed leer, a mud-stained boot snaking in to prod at broken ribs. Finally, a response: a sharp gasp and a whimper stopped short, sunken eyes staring up behind matted hair, staring, wincing, but still not quite _pleading_.

"Aren't you afraid for her, little prince?" An open cringe as the larger man bent down and pulled the prince close by the hair. The stench of blood and sweat and weeks-old grime from both directions, rasping breaths growing faster and frantic.

"No." A ferocity in those sunken eyes and that hoarse, gasping voice, a quality that had refused to die, even as they watched their owner's knights writhe and scream and finally fall still, even as they counted the long days in lines of sunlight traced on the stone below.

"I knew you still had a voice in there, even after all your screaming." A crooked grin on one side, a shamed grimace on the other. Clammy hand clutching at a blood-caked jaw, thick, hot fingers stroking tear-streaked cheeks and fragile limbs.

"She is strong. She will survive. I trust her."

A hand clenching around a stolen spear, the glint of familiar metalwork in the dim torchlight. "Ah, you are as fun as I expected you might be. I did not think you were so naïve, though. I wonder, will she sound the same as you when she screams?"

A hissed curse, the harsh rattle of chains. Head snapping away from too-strong fingers, and then, a mass of spittle rolling down a sneering face.

And laughter. Shrill, manic laughter, ringing through the shadowed cell and down the torchlit corridors, met with a shudder and a flinch from the prince.

"It is a shame you won't have the privilege of hearing her when she sees you. Don't worry. I'll listen closely for you."

A sudden jerk, a slight resistance of flesh before the _thud_ of iron on stone wall. A moan as if in shock, or perhaps in ecstasy. A twist, another jerk, and pooling black on harsh cold floor from withdrawn spear. Brief, desperate sobbing, pathetic strings of nonsense words and names, but even then, never begging. Larger man kneeling, pulling close, touching, grinning. The slow death of the ferocity in those eyes was enough.

* * *

"Princess, the castle is just ahead. Are you prepared?"

Eirika felt her throat tighten as she tried to swallow. She managed to met Seth's gaze and give a quick, decisive nod. Her hand met the hilt of the blade slung at her hip, her fingers tracing the intricate metalwork of the basket for some shred of comfort. It was strange to stand on this familiar hill and stare upon her home with a sword at the ready and a small army behind her, like some wild-haired warrior woman out of a folk tale. Above her, the same trees Ephraim had taught her to climb, much to Seth's dismay; beneath her, the same scattering of wild strawberries and brambles she'd trounced through on so many reckless adventures before. She could almost imagine it differently – the same clear sky and soft breeze, but with Seth clad only in his practice clothes and her brother standing at her side instead of languishing in some dungeon, all alone.

"I am prepared," she said finally, shaking off the daydreams that clouded her mind. "My brother is being held in the castle, isn't he?"

"If the rumors are to be believed, yes," Seth answered. "We must approach with caution. Whether or not the prince is within, Castle Renvall will certainly be well guarded. This is not a task to be taken lightly."

"I understand, Seth." She turned to look back at the group behind her, the motley assortment of Frelian guards, remnants of Renais' army, and a few scattered recruits they'd picked up along the way. She didn't need Seth's quiet warning to know it would be a miracle if they were successful at all, never mind if they came out with everyone alive.

"Everyone," she said at last, forcing her voice to be strong enough to carry over them all. "Please, be careful. Take care of yourselves, and each other." So many faces staring back at her, expecting more than a princess. They were expecting a leader. She drew another sharp, deep breath, then raised her sword up to the endless sky.

"We ride!"

* * *

It had become almost too easy for Eirika to lunge and drive the tip of her blade between the ribs of her enemies, to tear free and send vivid red splattering across her hands and face, to continue on without looking back at the screaming messes of men left in her wake. Even so, she still faltered every time she heard a familiar voice laced with pain in the distance.

"This is war. There will be casualties. You must move on." Seth's words to her, when she had found Ross sprawled in the mud, face up, his mouth hanging open too much like his wide-splayed gut. His words hadn't stopped her from retching and sobbing and shaking for days, from spending long nights awake in her tent, watching the moonlight stare down at her through the gaps in the canvas, harsh and white like Ross's glassy eyes.

Her heartbeat slammed in her ears as she rolled away from the path of an oncoming axe and tumbled forward to shove her blade into the foe's thigh. He collapsed at the blow and she struck again, a flash of silver and blinding red as sword met seizing throat. She did not stop to see him fall to the grass she had once laid upon to gaze at the clouds and spin foolish stories, or to watch his blood spread beneath his crumpled body and stain the wild strawberries.

Grado's soldiers seemed to fly at her, one after the other, grabbing at her mud-streaked hair and too-slender limbs. Her blade found a home in another man's gut, and then in the shoulder of a bowman who looked little older than herself. In the distance, she saw her comrades fighting on: Joshua's blade catching the sunlight as it swept down across his foe, Natasha not far behind with her staff at the ready, Artur and Lute taking out men from the sidelines. She couldn't see the others, but she prayed there were no more wide-eyed corpses to be retrieved on the way back – for regardless of how many of them died on that bramble-laden field, even if she was among them, there _would_ be a way back.

_I musn't fail,_ she thought distantly, as the tip of a spear sliced through her flimsy sleeve and pierced her tender flesh. She heard herself scream somewhere, but it was far softer than the persistent refrain in her mind. There was far more at stake than her own life. Even if it was only until they reached the inside of the castle, even if she fell over dead the moment she saw her brother's face, it would be enough. She could not fail. Not yet.

She looked up at the blood-stained lance that was ripped from her wound and readied herself to defend from another blow. Before it could come, she heard something whip by her ear, and then, sputtering, gurgling. She barely caught sight of the fletching of an arrow protruding from the horseman's throat, before watching him tumble to the ground as the horse reared and fled. As she turned to find the source, she saw Neimi, bow in hand, offer her a quick wave. A month ago, she might have waved and shouted her thanks. A week ago, she might have only nodded her acknowledgment. Now, she did nothing but turn away and run to the next enemy, letting her sword lead the way.

It was only when the ground was littered with bodies and the last living soldiers were retreating to the castle that Eirika stopped to catch her breath and clutch her wound. She stared in a daze out into the distance, to the castle she would soon reclaim and to her scattered allies slowly making their approach.

"Princess, your arm."

She found the source of the voice – Seth, his hand reaching out to brush her unwounded shoulder.

"I'm fine. We mustn't stop. The castle isn't far." She could make out the details of the stonework, the latticed ironwork of the gates, the soft yellows and vibrant reds of the gardens she almost remembered her mother tending to, bits of Renais' tattered azure and gules strung up in the trees like streamers for the midsummer feasts, her country's pride laid out in the harsh sun to make nests for the swarming crows. "What is the best way to get inside?" She could not bring herself to use the word "breach", for the thought of breaching the gates of her own home still felt alien, unreal.

"Vanessa scouted the perimeter. It seems they have the back entrances well covered," Seth answered, as he pulled his hand away with a grimace. "It would be expected for us to approach that way. Storming the front defenses may be our best option."

"Then, we strike at the front of the castle. We must hurry."

"But Princess, your wound – "

"There's no time to spare, Seth." She let her hand fall away from the wound and back to the hilt of her blade. "It can wait."

She tore down the rolling hills, her boots slipping in the wet grass. It might have been dewdrops or lingering rain dampening it; it might have been blood from her allies and foes, mingled among the young weeds. She did not look down to find out. Her gaze was fixed ahead, at the hanging bits of her country's colors – colors that, as she grew closer, seemed less like scraps of disgraced banners and more like something else entirely. She realized, slowly, that she could make out dangling legs, lolling heads, swaying arms and curled-up fingers in the scattering of red and blue hanging from the trees.

Bodies. At least twenty of them in her view, rocking back and forth with the gentle wind as the crows circled round. Her stomach lurched at the sickly-sweet stench growing in the air, but she managed, somehow, to keep herself from falling and retching at the sight. It was no accident, she knew – they were all too fresh to have been left out in the initial conquering of the castle. It was a display crafted especially for her eyes, a mockery of her country and the men who had died for her sake and her brother's.

She heard a sudden shout of horror, and then, a frantic call – "Princess, please, shield youreyes! You must not look!" – just as she caught sight of a blood-stained shock of hair the same shade as her own. She felt herself stop short, feet slipping in the wet grass at the sudden halt, and stared.

The steady sway of gaunt, twisted limbs drew her into a trance, rocking back and forth with the steady rhythm of a heartbeat. She could trace the sharp outlines of his ribs through the remnants of his thin, tattered tunic as the sunlight hit his body. Her gaze flitted from the dark bruises on his face and broken arms to the blackened, gaping hole in his gut and the entrails slipping out. He stared back at her, blood-streaked lips hanging open, brow relaxed as if in sleep, as a crow perched on his shoulder and thrust its filthy beak into the remnants of his eye.

She only looked away when a pair of strong hands grabbed her shoulders and pulled her from the body. She heard trembling, whispered apologies, the repetition of her name, and then something about stopping, about burials and rest and honor –

"No." There was no quiver in her quiet voice, no hesitation in her push away from Seth and unsheathing of her blade. "We cannot stop. There isn't time."

"Eirika –"

She shook her head. "Whether we stop or not. . . Ephraim would still be. . . It wouldn't make any difference. We continue. We retake Renvall. We free the surviving prisoners, and then we continue to Grado Keep. He will be avenged. I will avenge him."

The countless soldiers hanging in the trees no longer mattered, nor did the image that had haunted her since she'd left Renvall in Seth's arms, the image of her father smiling fondly at her one last time. She could see only the silhouette of a single slender body, hanging from a tree they had once so eagerly climbed together.

"Ahh, my little princess, you've finally arrived."

Eirika turned to face the bared yellow teeth of a dark-scaled wyvern, the same one she recalled from the morning she had last seen Renvall's halls. The same man leered down at her now, lips twisted into a sharp grin. She could not look upon his face. Instead, her gaze was drawn to the tattered cloak of smoke-gray and crimson wrapped around the wyvern's neck, the treasured spear slung at the rider's side, the flash of silver and gemstone bracelet twirling in his fingers.

"I'm disappointed. You cannot even scream for your poor brother?"

Hand embraced by the basket of her blade, eyes fixed firmly on her target. The sound of her heartbeat ringing in her ears, the snorts and sighs of the man's impatient beast, the frantic calls of her knight to fall back, to use caution.

"Oh, princess, don't look so upset. He did not suffer – oh, my apologies, of _course_ he did."

Laughter, endless laughter, in her face, in her brother's face.

"I will be far more gentle with you. I am not a man of waste, princess. I certainly didn't waste the time I spent with dear Ephraim – "

The sudden shriek of wyvern as her sword rent through the thin membrane of its wing. Another shriek as her weapon plowed into its pale throat and black-red blood hit her face. A shout of shock, her fingers latching onto the spines of the beast's neck, scrambling up its back with her sword clenched between her teeth. The taste of blood, fresh blood, coating her tongue and staining her teeth, like the juice of wild strawberries.

Horror giving way to amusement, the twitch of pale lips into that sick smile, hands reaching for the lance that was not his to touch. "So, you mean to entertain me? Ah, I do not want to break you, my dear, but if you will give me no choice . . . ."

A ring of metal on metal as sword crashed into stolen lance. Impact from the hilt of her blade shooting up her arm and aching shoulder. A gasp of pain, a stumble backward. Laughter, taunting, shouting, pleading.

"You have no words for me, my princess?"

Balance caught, hand clenched around hilt. Another charge of flashing blade: thrust, parry, slash, duck. Leaden arms aching, breaths coming in heaving gasps.

Hands reaching out to grab mud-streaked hair. Tearing, shameful screaming, stumbling forward. Bared teeth, twisted grin, the caress of a spearhead on her cheek.

"Do you surrender?"

A sudden gurgle, a single rasping wheeze, a struggling snicker. Blade running through gut, like beak through tender eye. A twist, a jerk, and pooling black in the saddle, spilling out the sides. Her blade at her side, her eyes watching him. The slow death of his laughter will never be enough.


End file.
